


I Wish You Knew (Well, Now You Do)

by The_lazy_eye



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Car Accident, Christmas Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, M/M, Minor Injuries, hospital stay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 10:51:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17058410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_lazy_eye/pseuds/The_lazy_eye
Summary: The flash of anger that ran through Stan was cut short as he turned around. He watched as the same officer who had been talking to the woman picked up the shoe and put it in a bag. He watched, time slowing down around him, as the office moved to another part of the street. He bent down, one gloved hand gripping the corner of a crushed box, torn wrapping paper shining in the street lights.





	I Wish You Knew (Well, Now You Do)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hawkinsbabe (Multishippers)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Multishippers/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, HawkinsBabe! I'm your Secret Santa! I hope you enjoy this!

Everything was cold now. The dinner on the table, the cookie dough on the stove, the frost on the windowsill. The air in the apartment was a still, unmoving haze and in the center of it, on the couch in the dark, sat one Stan Uris. He watched as the bright red numbers on the cable box turned. 10:42. 10:43. 10:44. Every minute passing only drove the point further and further home, like a stake between Stan’s shoulder blades.

Richie was late.

Richie was extremely late.

And Stan was extremely pissed. This wasn’t like the time Richie had gone out and broken into his apartment and covered the entire living room floor in plastic cups of water or when he covered Stan’s car in post it notes. Both times Stan had been annoyed, but there was always some dimly shrouded amusement lurking under his pursed lips. The slight upturn at the corner of his mouth that wasn’t noticeable if you didn’t know him. Now, though? Now wasn’t like those times. Now Stan’s anger was a quiet, white heat that burned in the base of his skull and made his teeth feel like they were going to crack from the tension laced through his jaw. His shoulders were drawn up and in from the sheer amount of willpower it was taking him to not storm out of his apartment and find Richie himself. He’d likely put his fist through Richie’s teeth with how he was feeling right now.

The light was dim, dancing around the apartment in deep shades of orange, green, red, whatever colors were on the string of lights _he_ so carefully wound around that fucking tree. The tree that was Richie’s entire idea in the first place.

Oh come on Stan we need a tree, he whined. We can’t have Christmas without it, he said. We can decorate it together and put our gifts under it, he said. Let’s make Christmas cookies together, he begged.

Why Stan let Richie talk him into this was beyond him. He was fucking Jewish. Richie’s red and green was his blue and white. His milk and cookies were sufganiyot. His dancing lights came from candles, not fairy lights. It isn’t to say that Chanukah was better or that Stan’s holiday traditions were superior to Richie’s, Stan just didn’t understand it. He was willing to learn, he was willing to do this for – no, _with_ Richie.

Stan had even pulled out all the stops. Richie had raved about some claymation Jack Frost movie he hadn’t seen since he was a child and Stan spent the following weeks digging through old movie stores and online pirating sites until he came across an intact copy of it. He was loaded into his TV right now just waiting for him to power it up and press play. Taunting him. Laugh in his face about how much time he wasted, how little Richie actually cared about this as compared to Stan. Christmas was Richie’s holiday every year, why would it even occur to him that Stan was going out of his way? Why would Richie ever think that this meant more to Stan than it did to Richie?

And that fucker was late.

Not only was he late, no. He was hours late.  Stan had sent countless texts to Richie asking where he was, when he was going to get there, if he was okay. He spent the first hour and a half neurotically checking his phone, sending a text every ten or fifteen minutes. The only thing he got in response was a dying cell phone battery. He wasn’t even sure why he was still sitting there. It wasn’t like Richie was going to magically stroll through the door to his apartment, big, stupid grin plastered over his face and some half ass apology dropping from his lips.

Stan pushed himself off the couch and crossed the room. He roughly pulled the plug out of the wall, cutting the bright twinkle from the Christmas lights off and plunging the room into a soft darkness. Fuck this. Fuck Richie. He should have known better. This didn’t mean anything to Richie. For him, it was just another opportunity to fuck around with his friends. Just another chance to hang out, josh around, fuck off. It didn’t mean shit. It didn’t mean half as much as it meant to Stan.

Stan used the back of his hand to roughly rub at his eyes, pressing tightly against them until he saw the whirling, starry patches of red and black and blue behind his eyelids. Why did he even bother getting his hopes up? He was setting himself up for heartbreak, anyway. Richie and Stan have been practically attached at this hip since they were kids and for roughly half of the time since then Stan has found himself helplessly in love.

Richie, of course, doesn’t know this. Stan has spent the better part of the past two years watching Richie with this secret pressed tightly behind his teeth. There was a silent hope, a burning want for Richie to love him back, but he’d never say it out loud. No. Stan, in all of his stupid, stubborn glory hoped Richie would just figure it out. Maybe a quick brush of their hands while they made cookies. Maybe a resting mop of golden curls on his shoulder while they watched movies. Maybe a quick, hidden glance while they hung decorations on the tree.

Well, looks like those maybes were nevers now. Stan slowly opened his eyes, letting the swirling galaxies fade away from his vision as the new, dim lights of the room came into focus. The first thing he noticed was they fact that the room wasn’t entire dark as it should be. Little flashes of blue and red lights were sneaking in through the open blinds and panting his wall. They flashed several times before Stan realized what they were. Cop cars, probably parked somewhere along the street that his apartment building bordered.

Stan let his curiously pull him toward the window. Whatever had happened was mostly cleaned up, several cops stood talking to pedestrians huddled against each other in an attempt to stay warm. Another cop was directing traffic to use only one lane, sparing the half of the road closest to Stan. Nothing else seemed to be out of place, though. No ambulance, no broken cars or metal debris, no clues to what happened or how long ago it happened. Stan could vaguely recall hearing a siren a while ago, sometime when he was caught up in his cell phone and self-loathing.

He welcomed the distraction, resting his forehead gently against the cool glass and watching the scene wrap up below him. Stan enjoyed drama, especially when he could remain on the outside. Well, on this case the inside. Something about this, though, didn’t sit right. An empty hollowness settled high in his stomach, twisting the remaining space below. He couldn’t place it but there was something about the scene, something about watching the cops talk, the way a man held his jacket tight around his center, the way a woman looked solemnly at the street. There was something there. It almost felt like a sick joke, one that Stan knew he would be at the center of.

Stan grunted, breath fogging up the cold glass. He pushed away and turned back to his empty apartment. He went to the kitchen, flicking on the light and moving to clean up the mess he’d left. Milk, eggs, flour. Fuck it all. It was trash. He took the can with him as he cleaned. When he finished, he tied the bag with so much force that the top seam started to rip. Once his shoes and jacket were on, he grabbed his keys and shut his door.

The air was crisp, cold on what little skin he decided to show the night. The scene was still going on outside but it looked close to ending. One couple was already gone, the last woman giving her statement to a weary officer. Being on the ground level, Stan could get a better look at everything. There was debris, just not things he could see from his window. They weren’t metal either. There was a shoe on the sidewalk, a simple untied converse high top, and what looked like food spread out over the street. Strange.

Stan tore his eyes away from the street, walking over to the enclosure and tossing the bag in. That feeling from before was settling in again. That strange, sick feeling of being left outside of some joke he was clearly the center of. He shouldn’t be down here. He should be upstairs in his apartment, warm and safe and with Richie. They should be making christmas cookies together and decorating that stupid fucking tree and exchanging gifts.

The flash of anger that ran through Stan was cut short as he turned around. He watched as the same officer who had been talking to the woman picked up the shoe and put it in a bag. He watched, time slowing down around him, as the office moved to another part of the street. He bent down, one gloved hand gripping the corner of a crushed box, torn wrapping paper shining in the street lights.

Fuck. Stan moved without thinking.

“Sir!” He called, “Sir, wait!”

The police officer stilled and turned to look over his shoulder as Stan barreled toward him. He watched as Stan tripped over his own feet, hands scraping against the sidewalk as he scrambled to regain his balance.

“Whoa, kid! Calm down.”

Stan didn’t register what he said. His eyes were glued to the battered box in the officer’s hands.

“Who’s - what - I just,” Stan gasped. He was bent over, hands on his knees and staring up at the officer. The cold air mixed with his sudden desire to sprint. The officer was patient enough to wait for Stan to regain some semblance of speech. “Who’s package is that?”

For a second, Stan thought he had six heads. The officer looked at Stan as if he had completely lost his mind.

“I can’t tell you that, son.”

Stan let out a frustrated noise, looking around again at the scene. Everything was gone now. No witnesses, no other police vehicles, no debris on the road.

“My friend,” Stan started, looking back up at the officer, “was supposed to come over tonight but he never showed up. I haven’t heard anything. His name is Richie.”

The officer looked down at Stan. He seemed to chew on the situation before speaking again. “There was an accident about an hour and a half ago. A kid jaywalked and got hit by a car.”

Stan felt his stomach churn. He didn’t wait to hear the rest of the story, if there was any more. He rushed to his car, frantically keying inside and putting it in drive. He was vaguely aware of someone calling out to him, telling him to be careful, but he couldn’t hear it. All he could hear was the steady pounding of his own heart in his ear. All he could feel was ice cold fear running through his veins.

Richie didn’t stand him up. He got hit by a fucking car and was probably dying alone in some hospital bed as Stan sped down the suburban streets. Fuck, how could he be so selfish. How could be really think Richie, of all fucking people, would not show without a good reason.

Richie is the same boy who has gone to every single one of Mike Hanlon’s home games. He’s seen every single one of Ben’s slam poetry gigs. He’s never missed one of Eddie’s track meets or Bev’s mini fashion shows. Richie was the only loser to go to his bar mitzvah. How the fuck could Stan think he would bail now?

Tears were burning down the sides of his face at the thought of Richie, broken and bloody in his hospital bed. Stan could feel the guilt bubbling up his throat. He should have known, god dammit. He could vaguely recall hearing siren outside, right outside of his own apartment, while he was all wrapped up in his anger and self-pity. He didn't bother to check on it. He didn’t even entertain the possibility that maybe it was Richie down there. Maybe Richie needed his help.

Stan scrubbed at his eyes. He wiped his tears away in one frustrated motion. God dammit. Fuck. Fucking god dammit. The hospital wasn’t far from his complex. He pulled into the lot and parked, practically tripping again as he rushed toward the waiting room doors.

“Stan!”

Maggie was the first to see him. She called out to him, standing up on her chair and motioning him over. When he got to her she wrapped him up in a hug. It was maternal, warm. Loving. Went came in for a hug next. Between Maggie’s warmth and Went’s strong presence Stan felt some sense of assuredness. He didn’t even get a chance to ask before Went was sitting down and patting the seat next to him.

“Rich is in surgery right now. It’s gonna be awhile before anyone can see him.”

Stan took his seat and spoke to the Tozier’s. He had always liked Richie’s family. Maggie was a constant force of joy and support. She was always the first to invite all the Losers to stay for a movie night. When they were young she would bake cookies and make everyone play board games together. When they got older Stan always knew that the Tozier house was a place of refuge. Maggie never asked questions unless you wanted her to. Went was pretty chill, too. He always had a joke to crack, giving Richie a run for his money. Besides that, he felt _safe_. Wentworth Tozier was built like a brick house and had the communication skills to match it. Stan once watched as he went up against Sonia Kaspbrak and got her to back down and allow Eddie to spend the night at Richie’s house for a sleepover. Richie’s parents were good.

Went said Richie had some internal bleeding and some broke bones but was going to be just fine. The surgery was just to mitigate any internal injuries and set his leg. Stan texted the other Losers to keep them posted. Bev was the only one to reply, always the night owl, and said she’d be by during visiting hours. As the clock ticked away into the early hours of the morning, they passed the time together. Went produced a pack of cards from his pants pocket and Maggie got them all hot chocolate from the convenience store across the street.

Stan was thankful for them and he suspected they were thankful for him, too. He could see the worry lines in their faces but together they managed to play a few rounds of Kings Corners and pass enough time until the doctor came out. She told them Richie was okay but asleep and probably wouldn’t be up for a couple hours.

Stan knew he would wait days, weeks, even months just to see Richie alive and okay in that hospital bed.

Went and Maggie went in first, leaving Stan in the waiting room for a while as they checked on their son and spoke to the various doctors involved in his care. When they came out, Stan was asleep in the lobby, curled on a chair and snoring lightly. They took turns staying with him while he slept, the other with Richie. When Richie finally woke up and had a chance to speak to both of his parents, Maggie gently shook Stan’s shoulders to let him know it was time.

“Richie, thank god.”

“Stan. Shit, man. Are you okay?” Stan knew he looked like hell. Red rimmed eyes, fucked up clothes, hair going in all different directions. It was a stark contrast to the Stan everyone knew. Pressed and proper and elegant. No, this Stan was wearing his emotions on his wrinkled sleeves.

“Am I okay?! Richie, you were hit by a fucking car. Are _you_ okay?”

“What, this old thing” Richie laughed, wiggling his toes to draw attention to the bandages on his leg and flashing the cast on his arm, “Tis but a flesh wound!”

Stan felt himself laugh despite the situation. No one should be laughing right now. The doctor said that if the car had been going any fast or that if Richie had landed differently on the ground who knows what would have happened. He might not have made it. That thought alone was enough to turn Stan’s small chuckles into bubbling sobs.

Richie reached out with his right hand and ran his fingers through Stan’s curls, shushing him periodically and soothing the breaking in Stan’s voice. After a moment Stan lifted his head to wipe at his eyes. “I thought I lost you,” came out as nothing but a whisper.

“Yeah, but you didn’t. It's gonna take more than a four-door sedan to knock good ol’ Dick Tozier off his feet.” Stan just laughed again, smacking Richie gently. “Hey! I’m still an injured man! Show me a little sympathy, huh?”

“God dammit, Richie,” Stan said, voice still barely above a whisper.

“I’m sorry I ruined your first Christmas,” Richie whispered back. The words come out shameful, almost like a dirty secret Richie doesn’t want to admit to. “I wanted it to be special.”

“Its okay, Rich.”

“No, its not. I just - fuck. Every time I want to do something special for you I fuck it up. You deserve so much more than that, Stan.”

Stan felt his mouth go dry at Richie’s words. “What are you talking about.”

“I’m talking about this. I just wanted to spend the night with you, show you a little bit of Christmas magic. I was just running so late. And then I didn’t see the car. And I just - fuck, Stan.” Richie paused, drawing in a deep breath and wincing before letting it out slowly. “I want to give you everything you deserve. I just want to be enough for you.”

“Richie,” Stan’s voice catches in his throat. It all made sense, fell together like building blocks in tetris that just belonged. Richie’s eyes were locked on his, an ocean of blue that Stan was practically drowning in. He’s never seen Richie this open before, this vulnerable. This _scared_. Stan could feel it, too. He could feel the pressure to be perfect, to get everything just right, to be able to read minds. He could feel the fear of rejection. He had been feeling it for so long himself and he wondered how long Richie had been feeling it, too.

Stan couldn’t help it. He laughed. Everything about this - from Richie being hooked up to an IV in the hospital to the unlit tree in Stan’s apartment both of their hearts laying raw and exposed on the hospital sheets - was insane. What were they even doing? Hiding behind their feelings and walking on eggshells around each other? Trying to be perfect when they damn well know they’re not? And for what? For neither of them to come clean and for Richie to almost die.

No. Fuck that. Fuck this whole situation.

While Richie was busy trying to hide his confusion at Stan’s sudden hysterical breakdown, Stan pushed himself up on his hands and leaned over Richie. When he kissed him he felt his entire body spark alive. And when Richie kissed back a fire all but lit in his veins.

“I can’t believe it took almost dying for you to kiss me, Staniel,” Richie chuckled as they pulled away.

“Yeah. Me, too.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Richie’s voice was soft as he moved his hand down from Stan’s hair to his hand. He laced their fingers together gently as Stan’s free hand came to rest over top.

“I was scared,” Stan said. It was the honest truth. If Richie deserved anything from Stan, it was his truth. “I thought if I told you it would ruin us. We’ve been best friends for years.”

“Yeah, we have. Even if I didn’t have a raging boner for you, too, did you really think I would stop being your friend over this?”

Stan resisted the urge to smack him again, a gentle smile curling at the side of his mouth. “Oh yeah? And what about you, big man on campus? Why didn't you tell me?”

Richie stopped at that, smirk falling from his face for an instant before a softer, more genuine smile spread across his lips. “I guess I was scared, too.”

Stan didn’t say anything at first. Instead, he dropped his eyes to the bed and gently ran his thumb over Richie’s hand in soothing, small circles. “Well. I’m all yours now if you want me.”

Richie brought Stan’s hand up to his mouth, pressing gentle kisses along his fingers and knuckles. “I do. Do you still want me?”

Stan laughed again, soft and airy. “Of course I do, you idiot. I just kissed you!”

Richie laughed back, smile taking over his face, blue eyes shining in the harsh hospital lighting. “You did. And I sure would love it if you did it again.”

So Stan did. Over, and over, and over again.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Big old thanks to Oldguybones for beta reading this for me <3


End file.
